The Demon Catchers of Milan (13 page)

Anyway, I heard Luke say once in English class that Thanksgiving at his house mostly involves a case of Miller, so I bet he is pretty pleased not to have to be there. Uh, my English is all confused now, because I only use it with you guys. Sorry!

Do you think Aunt Maggie will bring the creepy sweet-potato-and-marshmallow casserole?

I told everybody here about the holiday. Anna Maria was over having coffee and said something like, “Yeah, they fed you and you gave them smallpox and took their land.” I was so stunned I didn’t even cry—or jump up, grab a lamp, and smack her over the head with it. Whenever she says something like this, her brother, Francesco, just says, “All models are rude.” I guess she got a Della Torre Talking-To, because she stopped by around dinnertime with some kind of a squash tart (pumpkin pie) and told me that she had looked all over the city for it. It tasted really
good, though not a thing like pumpkin pie.

I know you would say she was right. But still, do you know what I mean?

I love you. Tell Dad I’m being good.

Love,

Mia

A couple of weeks before the Thanksgiving I was going to miss, I got to go shopping for dinner with Francesco and his father, Uncle Matteo, the one who looked like Giuliano. Because of me, we had to walk fast and we didn’t go far, but I still was embarrassingly excited to be outside, even if it meant listening overhead every minute. We had to walk around ladders on the sidewalk where people were stringing up Christmas lights; we blew puffs of frost in front of us. I found myself laughing just to be able to do that.

As I handed Laura the bags of bread, artichokes, pasta, milk, and cheese, it dawned on me that Uncle Matteo and Francesco had let me do most of the talking, and that I had gone from baker to vegetable shop to grocery without a single hitch, a single missed word, a single butterfly in my stomach as I pushed open the door to each shop. I hadn’t even thought about it. I gave her a huge grin of triumph, and she smiled back, saying, “Who crowned you queen of the May?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just my Italian is getting better, I think.”

“It certainly is. Giuliano called and said he’d be home around five, and that you should take a look at that history of the Visconti if you’ve finished your other work.”

I nodded. History made a lot more sense after Signora Galeazzo. A demon catcher had to know everything about the place they lived, otherwise when a case like Signora Galeazzo’s came up, they wouldn’t be able to make sense of the situation. Giuliano had told me a few days before that after the Galeazzo exorcism, he had finally found his grandfather’s notes for some other cases on that street.

“All long before the war—but at least we could know what wasn’t going on,” he had said.

“And when we—uh, you and everyone—smelled the flowers outside the house,” I had asked, “is that something that tells you what’s going on? Because I smelled gas. Like they had in the …” I was thinking,
In the concentration camps
, but that sentence was too hard to finish. “Anyway, I smelled gas.”

“What do you think?”

Argh! Worse than his grandson! Even though he’d just poured out almost more information than I wanted, a few minutes before.

“Well, I guess it would make sense,” I hazarded, buying time like I did in algebra class. “But maybe it’s only for ghosts, not for demons? And maybe it’s only if they lived in that house? And if the flowers aren’t in season, do you check something else? The leaves?”

Giuliano had started to laugh, then checked himself.

“Enthusiastic,” he said at last, looking sad. “These things do interest you, don’t they? But you shouldn’t have to see anything so … terrible again. We’ll have to be more careful. There’s too much at risk.”

As if I needed reminding.

“I just wish there was something I could
do
,” I told him.

He looked surprised.

“But you are doing so much,” he replied. “Studying, learning the language so fast, and sparing us a great deal of fear and worry while we try to solve this problem. Mia, you are doing a lot.”

This was not a satisfactory answer, to say the least, but I didn’t know how to reply. I hated feeling so helpless, hated it, hated it.

I thought about that conversation, about the need for history, on the day of the shopping expedition. After I’d finished helping Laura unpack the groceries, I went down to watch over the shop so Giuliano could step out. I walked around checking candles, always very careful not to breathe on them, and swept the floor, cleaned the glass in the door, and dusted the shelves.

I don’t think anyone ever asked me to take care of the shop, or showed me where the brooms and rags were; I just started one day. My parents would have been shocked, but then, cleaning my room had never calmed me down like this did. After I finished, I sat down to my books. I didn’t like being disturbed by the jingle of the bells over the door, even when a couple of gorgeous guys walked in. Especially when a couple of gorgeous guys walked in. Gina’s the one who can handle guys; I’ve only ever been kissed twice, and both times were kind of failures. My usual method with somebody good-looking (Emilio got around this by being a cousin) was to let someone else talk to
them, and steal glances when I was sure they weren’t looking. I shrank back behind the pages.

“Good afternoon, Signorina,” said one of them, smiling at my discomfort.

“Good afternoon,” I answered, taking refuge in my shop voice. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Even that sounded a little too suggestive to me. I looked down at what I was reading.
The Era of the Visconti
.

“What are you studying?” asked the smiling one, standing right over me. I almost jumped out of my chair.

“J-just the history of Milan,” I answered, hating my stutter. He was so beautiful, broad-shouldered, with high cheekbones and black, curly hair that had that windswept-on-purpose look. He looked like he was about Anna Maria’s age.

“Ah, very important. The history of thousands of fools and a few wise leaders,” he said. My eyes flicked to his hand, resting on the side of the table. His index finger was moving in a tiny pattern—what was he doing? As soon as he saw me looking, he stopped.

I didn’t know what to say, so I shrugged as if I didn’t care one way or the other.

His companion was picking up candles and putting them down. He took hold of a lit candle and tipped it back and forth, watching the liquid wax turn around and around in its pool.

I nervously launched into Giuliano’s usual speech about the candles: “Please be aware that these are only display samples. We’ll be happy to get you a fresh candle, if that’s the model you’d like.”

We?
I thought to myself.
I’m the only one here
. I think they must have thought the same thing.

He looked down at the candle in his hand, looked at me again, and set it down reluctantly, glancing over at the dark-haired man in front of me.
You envy your friend
, I found myself thinking.
A lot. Why?

They both gave off the same feeling, even though they looked very different, two separate varieties of handsome, in fact: the one with his dark, mysterious curls and the other with a Roman beauty, an elegant, high-bridged nose and flat, triangular cheeks. They both looked familiar, which meant they were probably models whose photographs I had seen in some magazine or shop window.

“We came to talk to Signore Della Torre about a candle order,” said the dark-haired man at last. “Is he in?”

“No, he won’t be back until around five,” I said, and then wondered if I should have given him even that small piece of information. The room seemed cold. I couldn’t stop feeling jumpy; I was pretty sure it was more than just the fact that I was standing close to two cute guys.

“That’s all right,” he said.

“Would you like me to take a message?” I asked, hating every minute that passed.

“No, no, thank you.” The dark-haired one smiled. “Good afternoon,” he added, his friend echoing him in a sullen voice.

“Good afternoon,” I forced myself to say.

Something seemed to strike the dark-haired guy as funny, and he turned to our guest book by the door. After they left, I
went to look at his signature. He had signed himself
“Lucifero.”
The sight of his scrawl sent chills up my spine. But not all the chills were scary.

“Satanists,” Giuliano said briefly that evening, when I told him about their visit. He shook his head.

“They’re always interested in us, of course. I know this ‘Lucifero.’ That’s not his real name. Very pretentious, to name himself after his chief god and to use the name openly. He and his friends are Satanists, devil worshippers—amateurs, I’m guessing, rather than members of an established cult. Bernardo Tedesco’s brother-in-law’s cousin overheard them in a café, once, talking about ‘harvesting demons’ from us. What more dangerous occupation is there? You have seen a bit of what we deal with. Can you imagine the price someone would have to pay to control that kind of power, the power of a demon? If you
can
control it. We only manage for a short time, and with another end in mind. Besides, as you know, it’s a certain kind of creature that answers the call of black magic, one that has its own, selfish, bloodthirsty plans.

“If they only knew … but they’re like a lot of people interested in the occult. They like the dark and the excitement. Everybody wants to be part of a secret society, a special group. More than that, they want quick power. They don’t have patience.”

He frowned. “Patience,” he repeated, and for a split second he looked strange, almost hungry. I didn’t think about that until a long time later.

TWELVE

Alba

L
ater on, Laura sent me to get Giuliano for dinner. “He’s taking forever to close tonight. Beppo’s probably stopped by. Tell him I’ve put the pasta water on,” she said, the universal Italian code for “get your butt up here.” It’s a major sin to let the pasta overcook or to eat it less than piping hot.

I came banging down the stairs and burst into the shop, not expecting anyone besides Giuliano and one of the old guys from the neighborhood, any of whom could see me with my hair in a total mess and my patchy jeans.

There was no Beppo with Giuliano; instead, there was Emilio, who was supposed to be out. There was also a girl. She seemed as startled as I was for a second, and then she gave me a
slow, assessing look, taking in my clothes, my overgrown hair, my breathless state. My stomach coiled up.

“May I introduce my little cousin, Mia,” said Emilio, touching her lightly on the waist and turning to me. She continued to look at me, managing a smile and putting out her hand.

“So pleased,” she said distantly. “My name is Alba.”

She didn’t want me there, and I didn’t want her there, either. The worst part about it was how beautiful she was: some animal side of me wanted to love her just for that, for her enormous eyes and long, graceful neck and perfect mouth.

I thought about going back upstairs, sticking my head under my pillow, and crying until I died of dehydration.

“Well, we should be going,” said Emilio.

“What restaurant?” asked his grandfather.

“Nobu,” said Alba, smiling so warmly at him that I would have been jealous if I were Emilio and his grandfather wasn’t such an old guy. It was kind of gross.

“Ah! All that raw fish and not a drop of olive oil in sight! You should take her to La Lanterna, the next time you go to Cinqueterre,” he said to his grandson. “That’s real sushi. That’s Italian sushi. Go, go, have a good time,” he said, patting them both on their backs and steering them toward the door.

“It was nice meeting you, Alba.”

I tried to make it sound true.

“Nice meeting you, too. The little American cousin.”

The next minute they were out in the street, Alba’s perfectly cut white coat outlined briefly against the stone of the Brera.

“The pasta water’s on,” I said to Giuliano.

“Ah? Good,” he said, shooting me a sharp glance as we walked back through the office, he with a sheaf of papers and me with a mood. He didn’t ask any questions, though.

After dinner, I helped Laura with the washing up, while Francesca spread her work all over the kitchen table and opened up her laptop. Laura folded the dish towels on their rack and wished us good night.

“What are you working on?” I asked Francesca while I finished wiping the counters.

She rapped the brief with the back of her fingers.

“A big case.”

“Really?” I asked, fascinated. “Are you finishing up Signora Galeazzo?”

She looked blank for a minute, then gave a little half-corner smile, very like Emilio’s, which I had already learned was the closest she got to a laugh.

“No, no. A court case.”

“Oh! Oh. Sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” she said.

I didn’t think it was, though. Nonna had left us; there was no one to help me read her expression as she looked out the darkened window. Before I could stop myself, I asked, “What kind of case? A murder?”

She frowned at me.

“No, no, nothing so …”

“Good,” I put in, jabbering to cover my latest mistake. “My
mom had to sit on a jury in a case like that, and it was awful. Her cooking was terrible for a week.”

She looked up at me in silence for a moment, then smiled the half-corner smile again; yet she looked so sad and so far away that I felt like a complete jerk. I realized now that we were both outside the family business. Then again, the reasons were so different.

Francesca rescued me. She smoothed out the papers and said, “Actually, it’s a civil case.” She sighed. “Property, property, property. People can never agree on it.”

She looked up, her eyes tired. “So you met Alba,” she said, changing the subject. I leaned against the stove.

“Yes,” I said, grateful.

“Wine?”

“Thank you, I would love some,” I said, and pulled up a chair.